


Check

by fairbreeze



Category: Final Fantasy VI, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Companionable Snark, I'm not sorry, M/M, chainsaw death porn, crossover OTPs, total crack pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbreeze/pseuds/fairbreeze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As life slips away, he thinks <i>there should be sand</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadcellredux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/gifts).



> Written for ff_exchange's ff_kiss meme thingy. Prompt was: Edgar/Grell, ...nice chainsaw you got there.
> 
> Even if this wasn't deadcellredux's prompt, I might still gift it. YOU ARE SUCH AN ENABLER, DO YOU KNOW THAT?

He opens his eyes, his first slow, _painful_ breath hitching around something _(oh god, is that a rib. Please, please don’t let that be a rib)_. There’s a rock pressing into his side, and he’s terrified that that assessment may be _literal_. He can feel his toes, wiggle them inside his boots and that’s a small speck of comfort in a world that currently has very little. He can hear things, screaming, the crash and explosion of continental drift, taking place over moments rather than millennia, but he cannot tell if it is real or echoed.

_This is hell_ , he thinks, somewhat miraculously alive still, but able to feel every _inch_ of how tenuous that is. And while he’s pretty sure the trees here are what saved his life, he can’t help but think how _wrong_ this is. _It should be desert. It should be hot. There should be sand..._

“Well! Aren’t you a handsome one!” the voice is far too chipper than it has any right to be, considering what’s happening on the other side of this forest, what is happening to the _world_ and he’d say so, but the attempt causes him to cough blood and lose his breath, vision going black around the edges, and so he stops, exhausted.

“No no, now don’t mind me. I’ll be done in a minute, you lovely thing, you. Such a shame, though. Will’s so _cruel_ , always sending me to reap the pretty ones,” and then there’s a sound, an amazing, _impossible_ sound, and he actually finds the strength, from somewhere, to hold up a hand, to indicate a pause. Even broken and bleeding on the ground his mind is as keen as ever and he knows, with those words, that no, he’s not going to make it out of this forest-- kings die the same as other men, after all. His father did, and he was a better man by far. He’s not happy about his fate, but he’s suspected it, since the moment everything lurched sideways and he started to fall. And yet, _that sound_...

“It pulls to the left...” he coughs blood onto the grass, but if he doesn’t strain to speak too hard, it’s possible, “... doesn’t it.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” and suddenly, there’s a man standing there, red hair and dressed in what looks a bit like Moblitz fashion, but with a bright red coat around his shoulders. And in his hands...

Edgar’s eyes light. He can’t help himself.

“Your _chainsaw_. It pulls a little,” another cough, “... to the left, doesn’t it? The engine doesn’t sound quite _(cough)_ balanced.”

“What would you know about it?” the man looks a bit perturbed, “You’re not even supposed to know what this _is_ for at least another hundred years.”

“I built one,” he can’t help the self satisfied smirk. Even in death, he’s proud of his feats of engineering. Perhaps _especially_ in death. The red-head’s eyes widen,

“You. _Built_. One?” Edgar nods, “One that _functions_?”

“One that doesn’t pull to the left,” he can’t help the grin, either. Because if he’s an engineer until the end, it only makes sense that he’s a sarcastic flirt until the end, as well. “If you happen to have any potions, I’ll fix yours so it doesn’t.” The man only seems able to gape at him,

“That... won’t stop me from reaping your soul, you know. You can’t just do a trade like that...” Edgar’s grin widens,

“I’m not bargaining for my life. But if I’m going to die, I’d at least like to be reaped by a piece of equipment that _works properly._ ”

\---

Thirty minutes later, Grell’s chainsaw is purring happily in Edgar’s hands. 

Fifteen minutes after that, so is Grell.

\---

Well, there’s no sand, but post-coital and covered in engine grease? Now, he thinks, now his death will seem _fitting_.

\---

“Well. As _delightful_ as this has been, and believe me, it _has_ been delightful, I’m afraid I have business I have to attend to,” Grell sighs, melodramatically, “There’s going to be _so_ much overtime for the next few months.” Edgar feels his heart seize in fear at that, not for his own death, he’s been resigned to that in one form or another for some time now, but for his kingdom. For the world.

“Better not waste any more time, then,” he says, grimly, though he’s smiling slightly still. Grell blinks at the note of fatalism in his voice, and then chuckles, pulls him closer, lips against his and Edgar can _taste_ death on his tongue, bitter and rich, 

“Oh no, my sweet little king,” he breathes against his lips, “Sometimes, sometimes _we_ get to choose. I choose to see what _else_ you can do with those hands,” and then he’s rolling away and to his feet, picking up the chainsaw with a grin. “I’ll see you again, pretty!” he makes a strange sort of gesture with his hand and winks, and then is gone.

Edgar can hear the lack of a _soon_ at the end, and wonders at it for a long moment before he picks himself up off the ground and looks around him. He’s _going to live_. It seems as strange to him now as the thought that he was going to die did several hours ago.

But... where is he?

Resigned, he picks a direction and starts walking, the taste of Grell’s mouth and the smell of engine grease fading as he goes.


End file.
